


What Happens in Dallas

by LittleMousling



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Hotel Sex, Light Bondage, Light D/s, Love, M/M, Roleplay, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Lovett wasn’t expecting to be picked up at a hotel bar in Dallas, but he’s not saying no.





	What Happens in Dallas

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to scarlettsymphony for betaing! Content notes at the end.

Lovett is bellied up to the hotel bar, waiting for the curly fries he wants and the steamed broccoli Tommy asked him to grab, when a drink slides over to his elbow. The bartender smirks knowingly at him. “From the gentleman in the corner.”

“I can’t take—” Lovett starts to say, and then glances up to where the bartender’s pointing. “Oh. Yes. I’ll, yes. Um, never mind on the fries for now. Can you—if I say to send the broccoli up to 408, can you actually do that?”

“No problem, sir,” the bartender says, possibly because Lovett’s dug out a ten and shoved it over. It’s not his most artful tipping, but he’s a little distracted. 

He walks the drink—a vodka martini with an extra olive, his favorite cocktail of the moment—over to a small booth in the shadowed corner of the bar. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?”

Ronan smiles. “I think you might be confused. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Are you from Chicago?”

There’s a few directions Lovett could take this. Only one is remotely interesting. “Yeah, sorry, my mistake. Thanks for the drink. And, no, uh. LA. You?”

“New York,” Ronan says. He doesn’t give his name, and Jon doesn’t either. “Join me?”

Lovett sits. He fidgets for a moment, and then lifts the glass. “Uh—cheers.”

“Cheers,” Ronan says, lifting his own to clink against it. They both drink. “What brings you to Dallas?”

That’s an easy one. Lovett smirks, picturing how he’d do this, how he’d make this gorgeous man want to take him upstairs. It’s been years, and he’s rusty, but he has a few ideas. “Oh, sales convention,” he says. “Nothing too interesting, but it’s nice to get out of town, isn’t it? See some sights, meet some new people.”

Ronan matches his expression, picking his glass up by the rim and swirling it. Neat Scotch, Lovett’s guessing. Not what Ronan drinks at home, but exactly what this hotel-bar-trawling character would order. “Do some things you wouldn’t do in LA,” Ronan adds, and his calf finds Lovett’s under the table.

“Sure,” Lovett agrees. “Have a drink with a—striking stranger.” 

“Not sure that’s a compliment,” Ronan says, easily. “The Hunchback of Notre Dame was pretty striking.”

Lovett takes a sip from his own glass, then says, “You know what you look like.” He must—not the same way as his Ronan, with all the complications, but the kind of character who would send a drink to a stranger in a hotel bar. 

He must be right, because Ronan just smiles wider, like it’s the right answer. “You aren’t hanging out with your colleagues,” he says. “From the, ah, sales convention.”

“They’re—” He pauses, tries to imagine why he’d be here alone, an interesting answer. “At a strip club. Putting dollar bills into bra straps, if I understand the concept correctly.”

“I don’t think they’re likely to be wearing bras,” Ronan retorts. He pauses, too, eyeing Lovett like a piece of meat. Lovett can’t say it isn’t turning his crank. “Your boyfriend wouldn’t like that?”

“My—” Something in Ronan’s face tells him to go with it. “Oh, I don’t know if he’d care,” he says instead. 

Ronan moves his other leg, so Lovett’s calf is caught between them. It’s a nothing touch, especially with both of them in jeans; it still puts fire into his belly. “He must not care enough about you, then. Is he away too much, or are you the traveling one?”

Lovett decides he doesn’t need to defend Ronan _to_ Ronan. Businessman Joe—Lovett’s character is now called Joe—would cheerfully throw his boyfriend under the bus to get laid in a strange city. “Oh, he’s home too much. Always underfoot, you know. Gets to be … boring, doesn’t it?”

Ronan almost breaks, mouth twitching. “Sure. At least you can get out of town sometimes. For sales conventions.”

“Mm-hm,” Lovett agrees. “Spices things up, you know.”

“There you go,” Ronan says. “Helps you keep the romance alive, doesn't it, when you … try new things. Even if your boyfriend doesn’t always need to know about them.”

 _Subtle_ , Lovett thinks, but he holds back the amusement, or thinks he does. “Yeah,” he says, and pours back the rest of his martini, because Joe’s definitely ready to go upstairs. 

Maybe Ronan is, too. He takes another sip of his Scotch and then pushes the glass to the side, untangles their legs and stands up. “I’m in 305,” he says, and drops a keycard on the table. “If you want to … talk some more.” 

Lovett lets him go, not entirely grasping why they aren’t just going up together. Maybe this is what adulterers at sales conferences do; probably Ronan’s done some independent research on the subject, because he’s a nerd like that. Maybe real cheats don’t want to get caught on hotel security footage together, or something. Lovett doesn’t need to understand it; he just finishes Ronan’s Scotch, checks with the bartender that the bill’s been taken care of, and heads to the elevators. 

He gets one answer to his question when he slides the keycard home and pushes the door open to find Ronan’s jeans puddled in the entryway. Ronan’s out of sight of the door, but Lovett closes it fast behind him anyway. If there’s a pantsless Ronan in here somewhere, the world doesn’t need to know about it.

There’s more than that, when he rounds the corner into full view of the room. There’s a fully naked Ronan, laid out on his side on the king bed with one foot on the bed and his wrist draped over his knee, looking like a fucking pin-up. Looking like he practiced this pose, frankly, or just watched Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park a few dozen times. “You made it,” Ronan says, smirking.

“Seemed like the thing to do,” Lovett says, and peels out of his t-shirt. “You must … do this a lot.”

Ronan shrugs. “Hotels get lonely, don’t you think?”

Lovett doesn’t think that, because he travels in a pack these days, if he’s not traveling with Ronan. But Ronan usually travels alone, and has for a decade. Longer. He’s just been in Australia; it’s England again next, if Lovett remembers the calendar right. “I’ll keep you company.”

“I was hoping you would,” Ronan says. He rolls onto his back and wraps a hand around his dick, strokes it slowly. “You look like a man in need of some … release.”

“Subtle,” Lovett says, because maybe Joe has a sense of humor. He takes his jeans off, and climbs up onto the bed in his briefs. Joe would. Well, maybe Joe wouldn’t, but Ronan likes to peel Lovett out of his underwear, and Lovett likes to let him. 

They still haven’t exchanged names. Lovett’s going to tell Ronan all about Joe, after. Joe did a masters in something he loved—music, maybe—and graduated in debt, took a job in sales while he assessed his options. It became a career. He has regrets, but he plays sometimes, late into the night with headphones in—Joe doesn’t have a piano, he has a pretty nice electronic keyboard—while his boyfriend’s sleeping. Joe feels an itch under his skin that nothing ever seems to scratch. Joe drinks too much. Joe likes cats. Joe—

Ronan goes straight for Lovett’s dick, bypassing all niceties, and Lovett entirely stops caring about Joe. “What do you like?”

Ronan knows exactly what Lovett likes. Ronan pioneered not a few things that Lovett likes, even though Lovett in ‘11 would have said he knew everything there was to know about what he liked in bed. Ronan’s _inventive_.

Lovett wonders how risky Joe might want to be, in a hotel room with a nameless man, and then he decides he doesn’t care. Ronan’s been in Australia; Lovett wants him close. “You can fuck me,” he says, with his chin up, like it’s a challenge as much as an offer. 

“Yeah?” Ronan says, and licks his lips. “I don’t have any condoms, though.”

Ronan’s character is a schmuck. Lovett likes it. “I’m on PrEP,” he offers. “So—”

Ronan makes a face. Lovett—not Joe—says, “Too real?”

“Little too real,” Ronan says. “Also, it’s kind of hotter if you’re a moron.”

“Mm, I know my brains intimidate you,” Lovett tells him, grinning, and then he pushes it down. Joe’s a cheat; Joe’s reckless. “I hate condoms,” he tries, instead, and then, inspired, adds, “I want to feel you fucking dripping out of me. After.”

Ronan goes heavy-lidded, lips parting. His tells are subtle, but Lovett’s had a long time to learn them. “Okay,” is all he says, but that works for Lovett. For Joe, rather. Joe’s very into this skeevy hot blond. Joe would have settled for way, way less hot than he’s getting, frankly. Joe’s having a _great_ night. 

Ronan’s got a hand back in Lovett’s briefs and is jacking him again, slowly. Lovett licks his lips and goes with it, pushing into Ronan’s hand. “Since we just met,” Ronan says, “and I don’t know how you like it, I think you’d better open yourself up for me.”

That’s one of the things Ronan taught him—that he could like being too vulnerable, too embarrassed, red-faced and wanting to hide. That he could like feeling Ronan’s eyes on him while he fingers himself, or rides a dildo, or begs to suck Ronan off. 

He’s not so sure _Joe_ knows he’s into it. “Uh—that’s not really—you know, I don’t do that much yoga, so—”

“You can reach,” Ronan says, mildly. “Unless you want to let me fuck you without.” 

Lovett does not. Lovett likes a comfortable glide. “You could just—”

“I don’t have all evening,” Ronan says, and he’s turning frosty now, intense. He can be steely-eyed and frankly terrifying when he wants to be; Lovett has a pavlovian response to seeing him argue with pundits on CNN. He tries never to watch Ronan’s TV spots in mixed company. 

“... yessir,” Lovett says, because maybe Joe would. Maybe Joe would realize this is what he’s been wanting, what his boyfriend isn’t giving him. Why he’s out at the hotel bar looking to get picked up. 

Ronan gives him a smile for that, and another couple of strokes. Lovett hadn’t even noticed when his hand stilled, too caught up in the anticipation of what Ronan wants from him. “Good,” he says. “Kneel up for me now.” 

Lovett’s shaky on his knees, more so when Ronan starts peeling his briefs down, slowly, letting his fingertips and the corners of his nails catch on Lovett’s skin. “Pretty,” Ronan comments, when Lovett’s cock is out. “Maybe if you’re real good for me, I’ll suck you, after.” 

Joe would be unsure, and turned on, right now. Lovett’s turned on and extremely sure, but he thinks he gets the right reaction across. “I can, uh. I can be … good.” 

“I bet you can,” Ronan says. He’s moving Lovett, hands pushing at Lovett’s hips until Lovett pivots around, briefs still caught above his knees. Ronan’s hand pushes between his shoulder blades, and he catches himself on his palms on the bed. “Good start.” 

Ronan’s climbing between Lovett’s calves, pushing his legs as wide as the underwear will allow. He reaches around to put a travel-sized tube next to Lovett’s pinky. “I think I said I don’t have all evening, though.” 

Lovett sucks in a breath, rests his weight on one arm and picks up the tube with the other. He knows the best way to do this, but Joe might not. Joe probably has exactly the kind of tender, gentle, giving boyfriend at home who wouldn’t even think of making Joe finger himself open to get fucked.

Poor Joe. Fucker doesn’t know what he’s missing. 

He puts on the Joe effort, reaching up and around, straining, barely reaching. “Said I don’t do yoga,” he complains, and then Ronan’s shoving him down again, harder, leaning up over him. He grabs for Lovett’s wrist, yanks it down and under. It hurts just enough to be really fucking hot. “I—right, yeah. I was getting to that.” 

Lovett thinks, belatedly, that Joe probably watches enough porn to have figured that one out on the first try, but whatever. Anything that gets Ronan manhandling him is the right call. He can contemplate verisimilitude later. 

The first touch of his fingers always has him too focused to be embarrassed. That comes later, when he’s two fingers deep and starting to want to get himself off like this, when he hears the wet noises of it and realizes Ronan’s hearing them, that Ronan’s _watching_ him work himself up. It’s one thing to jerk off for an audience; this is different. Maybe it shouldn’t be, maybe that’s internalized homophobia or twisted sexism or something, but it really fucking is, and it gets him every time. He never gets over the red-hot embarrassment of it—or the way that embarrassment makes his dick hard enough to split rocks. 

Ronan’s keeping close enough that his cock keeps brushing Lovett’s leg. That tickle—and the tight band of the briefs stretched around his thighs—are the only sensations Lovett notices besides the stretch around his fingers and the growing need for more. 

“That’s enough,” Ronan says, suddenly, and Lovett tips his head back to look at him. Joe would need more. Joe’s not getting fucked enough, not the way he likes it.

“Um—” Lovett says, Joe-nervousness in his voice. “Just give me a second.”

Ronan narrows his eyes. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”

Lovett finds he’s shoving back on his fingers, can’t help it. That tone is too good, too sharp. Too promising. “I, um, yeah. I can—this is enough, yeah.” He coughs, adds, “Ish.”

“You can leave, if you aren’t going to behave,” Ronan says, sharply. “Don’t think I can’t find someone else at the bar ten minutes from now.” 

Joe doesn’t know why that’s so fucking hot. Lovett does. “Sorry. Sir.” 

Ronan’s face gentles, immediately, like a reward for getting it right. “Come up here, now,” he says. 

Lovett pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the inside of his thigh. He’s still smearing the sheets as he climbs up closer, but fuck it; Ronan can come to his room, after, if they mess this one up too much. 

They haven’t kissed. Lovett wants to kiss his boyfriend; Joe probably isn’t sure what’s allowed. Lovett can live with Joe’s reality, just now. He’ll kiss him after. He gives Joe some put-on bravado: “How do you want me?” 

“Tied up,” Ronan says, which isn’t the answer Lovett was expecting. 

“Uh—that’s—not that it doesn’t sound hot, just, I don’t know you. So—”

Ronan leans back against the pillows, arms behind his head. Casual—or fake casual, because he knows how good he looks like this, biceps tight and his whole torso stretched out and gorgeous. “So text a friend where you are, and then bring me a tie from my suitcase. The red one.” 

Lovett swallows. He wants it; fuck Joe. “Yeah.” He shucks out of the briefs he’s still wearing, and leans over to get his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. He starts to type, then looks up. “You should tell me your name, probably. So—”

“Room number’s enough,” Ronan says. “Faster. Don’t waste that time we spent opening you up.” 

Lovett actually does draft a text; it’s to Jon, and reads _Ronan’s in town unexpectedly; will see you guys tomorrow. Text me the bus time so I don’t miss it? Room 305 if there’s an emergency._

He tosses his phone back onto his jeans and goes to pull the shitty red tie out of Ronan’s bag. It’s not a tie Ronan ever wears; they’ve been using it for this, for various dirty purposes, for years. It travels better than cuffs, in that no one would be able to sell a tabloid story about Ronan Farrow going through airport security with a ratty tie in his luggage.

Ronan’s off the bed when Lovett turns around, and Lovett can’t help but eat up the sight of him. Lovett’s good at not missing Ronan, or their lives wouldn’t work. But as soon as they’re together, the fulfilled longing hits him, bittersweet. Mostly just sweet. 

“Lie down on your back. Hands up by the headboard,” Ronan tells him. It’s a hotel headboard; there’s no way Ronan can tie him to it, but they both like the visual, anyway, of Lovett’s hands bound above his head. There’s something about it that’s hotter to Lovett than anything else they’ve tried, bondage-wise. Other stuff is good, but this is better. 

Ronan leans over him, tying his wrists together in a handful of quick movements, checking the fit. Lovett wanted this before, but now he’s desperate, on the verge of rolling his hips into the air for a little imagined relief. “Yeah, you want it, don’t you?” Ronan murmurs, climbing onto the bed. “Getting picked up at sales conferences just so you can get what you need.”

Lovett nods, and then Ronan’s slotting himself between Lovett’s thighs. Lovett has a reasonably good inkling what he wants, and isn’t surprised when Ronan hauls Lovett’s hips into the air until Lovett can plant his feet and help hold himself up, a gentle incline from knees to shoulders. It requires some muscle on both of their parts, but not enough to make it hard to get off, and it leaves Lovett almost helpless, tied up and with Ronan’s fingers digging bruises into his ass. 

“Look at you,” Ronan says, admiringly. Skeevily, really, eyeing Joe shamelessly, gaze lingering on his dick. Joe likes it. Lovett’s pretty sure he’s going to stop caring about character motivations in about three minutes—maybe less, if Ronan doesn’t take it slow—but he cares now. Joe doesn’t always feel attractive; the leer of a hot stranger is going to boost his self-esteem for weeks. 

Ronan shifts his grip on Lovett’s ass until he can rub a thumb over Lovett’s hole, and Lovett sucks in a breath. “Yeah—you can—”

“I know I can,” Ronan tells him, and Lovett’s hips jerk. “Shh.” 

Ronan’s got the lube again, from wherever Lovett abandoned it, and he slicks himself rapidly while Lovett does more of the work holding his hips off the bed. “You’re gonna be so tight for me, aren’t you?” Ronan asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s pushing in. 

He feels familiar—that’s the best word Lovett has, right now. Perfect. Perfect and familiar. It’s a stretch, but not too much, and Ronan’s being gentle with him despite the acting. Little, easy thrusts, letting Lovett open up around him, doing most of the work of holding Lovett’s hips up while he adjusts. His biceps must look incredible right now, but Lovett’s eyes are shut while he focuses on taking Ronan’s cock. 

They both sigh when Ronan’s all the way in him. “Yeah,” Lovett says. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Yeah, baby,” Ronan agrees. “Taking it so good for me.” His voice is tight—Joe wouldn’t know that, but Lovett does. He needed this more than he’s letting on. He flew to Dallas—he fucking flew to Dallas to see Lovett, to pick him up in a hotel bar. How long was he waiting in the bar for Lovett to come down?

No; Lovett almost shakes his head. Tommy hadn’t suddenly had a craving for steamed broccoli. Tommy was in on it. He’ll praise Ronan for his devious mind after. Right now he just wants this: the proof that his boyfriend missed him, loves him. Wanted to come and be with him. 

If Lovett wanted it before, now he feels needy, cock curving rock-hard over his straining belly. “Harder,” he mumbles, then, louder, “Harder, fucking—” He thinks about making an excuse, that his legs or his abs will give out, but he doesn’t need to make excuses with Ronan. If Joe does—forget Joe, frankly. This is him and Ronan, right here, right now. “Please, I need it.”

That works. That really fucking works. Ronan’s driving into him now. They’ve done plenty of slow and easy and gentle, long aching sessions of staring into each other’s eyes, sweat-dripping, holding off. This isn’t that. Lovett needs to fucking come. He needs Ronan to _make_ him come. Fuck the offered blowjob; Lovett, unlike Joe, can collect another time. Lovett, unlike Joe, has a boyfriend who doesn’t just love him but who fucks him dirty, _filthy_ , who fills him up and ties him up and makes him beg for it.

“Taking—taking my cock just right,” Ronan mutters, barely audible; it’s more for himself than for Lovett. Lovett strains against the wrist ties, strains in his thighs and his belly. He can’t usefully push back against Ronan, not without risking his balance or their rhythm, and he can’t stroke himself off. The result is that he’s subject to Ronan’s whims. Thank fuck Ronan’s whims usually involve Lovett coming all over himself. 

He wishes there was a mirror here. He usually objects to bedroom mirrors—he and Emily do not see eye-to-eye on this—but Ronan’s ass, his thighs, fucking into Lovett must be art right now. Must be a fucking statue. A moving statue—metaphors are beyond Lovett at this moment, so whatever, just, Ronan’s ass must look edible right now. Must look like a fucking fireman’s calendar, like porn, like—like—

“Touch me, please just—jerk me off,” Lovett gasps, and Ronan groans and tries to free a hand for it. The wobble of Lovett’s body, when he lets go of Lovett’s hips, is too clearly risky to both of them, and Ronan puts it back. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

“You can—you can do it,” Ronan says, and that’s enough for Lovett. He moves his bound hands down and gets the right one wrapped around his dick. It’s everything he needs—Ronan fucking him, _watching_ him; Ronan letting him jerk off with his tied-up hands. He gasps, wetly, and Ronan tells him, “Yeah, baby, that’s it.”

It’s fast, after that. Lovett can’t make himself gentle his strokes long enough to slow down; he races towards orgasm, hips jerking, coming all over his hands and his belly. He keeps his hips up for Ronan, and Ronan growls and curls forward over him, hips rabbiting, cock too much and not enough inside of Lovett.

“So—good, baby,” Ronan manages, words half-swallowed. “Love you—” 

Ronan’s best tell is his grasp. His fingers tighten so hard on Lovett’s hips that Lovett squeaks, pained and turned on, hoping for bruises in the morning that he can touch and remember this by. “I—” Ronan gets out, and nothing else, hips stuttering and then stopping dead, cock shoved all the way into Lovett. 

They both breathe in place for a moment, and then Ronan lets all the air out of his lungs and pulls out, gentle, so that Lovett can lower his ass to the bed and splay his legs, relaxed. 

Ronan rolls over onto his back, catching his breath, squirming up to get his head on a pillow. Lovett rolls back towards him, settling into their usual post-coital press, half of his chest over half of Ronan’s. He kisses the nearest bit of Ronan’s skin, fondness overwhelming him. “The calendar says you’re supposed to be in Chicago.”

“I’m a little concerned that you thought ‘interview Elon Musk in Chicago’ was a real event on my schedule.” 

“No, I figured it was code for some secret source. Or that you’re fucking around on me with Kara Swisher, which, frankly—”

“Not gonna happen,” Ronan says, and then, “She keeps turning me down.”

Lovett laughs, presses a kiss to Ronan’s damp skin. “So, spicing things up, are we?”

“What, a man can’t surprise his boyfriend at a sales convention anymore?” 

“Not without risking being slotted in as a last-minute podcast guest,” Lovett warns him. “When do you have to go back?”

“In the morning, to Phoenix,” Ronan says, an apology in his voice. “I’d come to the next stop if I could. I’ll be in LA when you get back.”

Lovett knows that; this is a bonus, however long it is, to what he’d been expecting. “Pundit will be happy.” 

Ronan doesn’t say anything about Pundit being an unsubtle code for Lovett’s heart, which Lovett appreciates. Discretion—with each other, with the outside world—is half of why they work as well as they do.

“I think my character had some inconsistencies,” Lovett says. “I’ll work on it.”

“You will, will you?” Ronan mumbles. He sounds tired. “What, sales-convention guy?”

“Joe,” Lovett says. “His boyfriend doesn’t give him what he needs.”

Ronan’s quiet for a second, then says, “And you can relate, huh?”

Lovett curls in closer. “No, I’m pretty well satisfied.” He kisses Ronan’s chest, and then his mouth, lingering. He wonders how early Ronan’s flight is, and whether he can collect on some promises. “Thanks for the surprise.”

“Anytime,” Ronan says, and they both know he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains roleplayed infidelity, manipulation, and unsafe sex between strangers. (None of which is real or played for reality within the story.)


End file.
